as if anything could ring true to a fanciful melody
with chain-mail and crockery,
but not in the symphony of snoring harps
and whistling trombones as much as:
falling asleep as quickly as the tailing off of the song
looking through a woman (christopher young,
hellraiser ii, hellbound soundtrack)
and entering the realm of dream with something to think about...
and in dream, to stand outside one’s own body,
and peering through the window
to see a lightning bolt strike the ground... and instead
of disappearing due to crap wi-fi
begin to dance... moving with heavy crackling sounds
as if a man walking on autumn leaves or crisps
thump, thump thump an electric heartbeat with a sort of
freezing of water glow that expands to diamond diadems of ice,
surely no better compliment to the poem picasso behind the window...
no critical comment, no lovely jubbly one pound fish sing-along in east ham,
no... none of that... the best compliment... a furthered meaning
away from the act from the night... not so much
picasso behind the window... but a bolt of lightning, dancing
a dance of icy luminescent silver in ultra-violet x-ray.